


a fight no one wins

by Mayarene Rose (Paradise_of_Mary_Jane)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [21]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-24 14:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21101024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradise_of_Mary_Jane/pseuds/Mayarene%20Rose
Summary: Alphonse watches Ric fight off several criminals with only his fists. He might have helped, except the kid clearly didn’t need it. Alphonse didn’t trust the guy. He needs to know more about him. Needs to understand him because every single part of him is a mystery wrapped up in a question.Alphonse hates unknowns. He especially hates working with them.





	a fight no one wins

**Author's Note:**

> Day 22: Fist Fight

Alphonse watches Ric fight off several criminals with only his fists. He might have helped, except the kid clearly didn’t need it. Alphonse didn’t trust the guy. He needs to know more about him. Needs to understand him because every single part of him is a mystery wrapped up in a question.

Alphonse hates unknowns. He especially hates working with them.

Ric fights like a whirlwind. He fights like he knows what he’s doing. He fights like he’s not afraid to die, like he _wants _to die.

Alphonse thinks he’s a liability. He’s definitely a threat. He’s still trying to decide if the kid’s a threat to them.

The thing about him is that he never sticks around. It doesn’t feel like he has something to hide, more like he can’t really stand the sight of them. Not that he hates them. Alphonse just gets the impression of… Not resentment, exactly. Loss, more like. Possessiveness.

He’s not just a good Samaritan, that’s for sure, no matter what he tells them. No matter how many times he says that to himself.

Ric fights like he wants to get hit, like he wants to go down. He seems to be moving solely on muscle memory. He’s not _thinking _and it’s gonna end up getting people killed soon.

The thing is, Ric’s good. Too good, even. His fists always found their mark and the guys he were fighting went down quickly. He fights with barely controlled rage. He gets a lot of hits in but he’s also taking a lot of hits.

Alphonse should probably intervene. God knows who the kid is. Someone obviously trained him, and he definitely has a lot of experience, but he’s not police. Police don’t fight like that. He’s not meant for this.

Ric works faster than he realized. By the time Alphonse steps out of the shadows, all the criminals were down. Ric stands at the center of it all, breathing hard. There’s a bruise blooming at his jaw that’s gonna hurt like a motherfucker, and he’s hunched over himself that definitely means broken ribs.

Ric doesn’t look surprised at Alphonse suddenly turning up. He probably knew from the beginning. The kid’s spatial awareness is _freaky._

“Could have used the help,” Ric says.

“You looked like you could handle yourself,” Alphonse says easily.

Ric snorts. 

“You need a hospital?” Alphonse asks. 

Kid’s hurt. Pretty badly, but trying hard to hide it. Probably gonna go home to nurse his wounds, except Alphonse’s not even sure the kid has a home to go to. He has that look of someone who’s had to sleep in the back of a car way too many times.

“I’m fine.”

“Those look like broken ribs. At least let me take you to a doctor. You’ll get yourself killed walking down the street in that state.”

Ric’s shoulders tense up. “Can’t afford it,” he says. “I can take care of myself.”

Alphonse doesn’t doubt it one bit. Broken ribs are dangerous, but maybe he knows someone? Maybe there’s someone who takes care of him? Alphonse hopes there is.

There’s still something fundamentally wrong about letting a clearly injured twenty-something kid wander around without doing anything, but. The guy can handle himself. It’s not like Alphonse can force him to do anything.

“Why are you doing this, kid?” Alphonse asks.

Ric’s shoulders rise in irritation at the word kid, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Same as you,” he says, which is what he _always _says. “I just want to help.”

It’s a non-answer and they both know. Neither of them know each other. Ric has no better idea why any of them are doing what they’re doing than Alphonse does with him.

“You’re in Bludhaven, kid,” Alphonse says. “No one just wants to _help _here. Me and the others, it’s our job. We swore an oath. What’s your story?”

Ric won’t quite meet his eyes, focusing instead on the costume. His gaze is distant. Nightwing wasn’t a big guy. Alphonse had to make a lot of adjustments just to get it to fit. It almost wasn’t worth it, since it took away a lot of the tech in the suit. But small criminals went running at the sight of it. Power of a name, he guesses.

“Not really that interesting,” Ric says. “It’ll bore you to tears.”

Alphonse snorts. “Who trained you? And don’t say street fighting. No one’s buying that.”

Ric shrugs easily. His smile is tight and plastic. “Parents were gymnasts. They taught me a thing or two.”

Ric doesn’t fight like a gymnast. Alphonse hasn’t actually seen a gymnast fight because that’s not what they do. Ric fights like he does it for a living. He fights like every moment is the last moment of his life. He fights like he’s been doing it his entire life.

Ric’s not a big guy but you wouldn’t guess it, with how he fights, how often he wins. His knuckles are permanently bruised and there’s a scar on the side of his head that looks like it came from a bullet. The guy is more questions than he is answers. Alphonse doesn’t trust him, but he thinks he might feel sorry for him.

“You wanna suit up with us?” he finds himself saying. He gets the ridiculous impression of trying to tame a stray dog. “There’s still a couple of Nightwing costumes lying around. Help keep you from breaking ribs.”

It was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Something shutters in Ric’s eyes. It turns--not dark, exactly, but close enough. Angry. Bitter.

“I’m not Nightwing,” he says. “I’m not gonna run around in his clothes. I’m not taking them.”

“Why not?” Alphonse asks. “He’s not using them.”

Nightwing--the real Nightwing, or the first Nightwing--hadn’t been seen in over a year. He just up and disappeared. Sure, he leaves Bludhaven sometimes, but that’s either because Gotham is exploding again or he’s helping other heroes with saving the planet. In all Alphonse’s years, he’s never seen Nightwing fall off the radar completely.

“It’s not mine,” Ric says. “It’s not my name. Not me.”

“It’s just a suit,” Alphonse says. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Though he knows that’s not true. Nightwing does mean something. To the criminals, to the city, to the innocent people there. Nightwing meant something to the people in all the places Nightwing’s touched.

“It meant something to him,” Ric says. For a moment, his eyes looked different, older somehow, less angry. “I’m not taking it.”

He turns to leave, steps slow and limping. Alphonse doesn’t stop him.


End file.
